Ready to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  Franco slipped into the thick undergrowth lining the road and waited for the SUV to continue on its way. Before beginning his ascent of the steep mountainside, he held perfectly still for several minutes, listening for anything other than the sounds of the forest.

  He looked at his watch and logged the time at 1650 hours. His ride would return at exactly 1900 hours. He preferred shooting in the early morning or late afternoon because he liked the sun low and behind him.

  In another five hundred meters, he’d intersect an ancient trail. Local folklore said the trail dated back to the Mayans, but Franco didn’t put much weight on native legends. From there, he’d head north toward his shooting position overlooking Santavilla. He had plenty of time—the church meeting didn’t adjourn for another hour—so he felt no need to hurry.

  Franco didn’t know why he felt so comfortable in the jungle, only that he always had. As a child, he’d sneaked out of the orphanage and explored this damp and mysterious world more times than he could remember, and it had never ceased to amaze him. Perhaps it was the rule of opposites. These mountains were teeming with life, something he lacked in his soul. He had no illusions about who he was—Macanas’s chief of security—and he never second-guessed his role as an enforcer.

  Keeping his senses on high alert, Franco continued his hike up the mountain. He stopped every hundred meters or so and inhaled deeply, smelling for tobacco or marijuana.

  Even though it was early in November at the end of the rainy season, the leading edge of a thunderstorm loomed on the western horizon. He thought it unlikely anyone would be up here, but he didn’t rule it out. Assumption led to mistakes, and mistakes weren’t tolerated. A happy boss was a generous boss, and he intended to keep the money flowing.

  Ten minutes later, Franco found the trail and followed it north. Making his way through the foliage, he sensed countless forest creatures tracking his progress—mostly birds and primates. Jaguars lived in these mountains, but they didn’t concern him. Snakes were a different matter, and there were many poisonous varieties up here.

  He followed the trail for another klick as it gradually dropped in elevation. In several areas, he had to make detours around fallen branches. Thirty meters short of his shooting position, he stopped and removed his backpack. Within seconds, he turned himself into a shaggy green mass. He’d made the ghillie suit himself, something he’d never share with his colleagues. As a child, he’d spent eight years in a sweatshop making clothing, work he’d detested with a passion. He never believed he’d use such a menial skill ever again, but life tended to be unpredictable.

  Franco didn’t need the ghillie suit to conceal himself from anyone in the center of town, about nine hundred meters distant, but it offered an extra layer of stealth. Several months ago, he’d dug a small, level pad into the mountainside and covered the excavated area with a branch he’d cut from a madroño tree. He’d dug similar pads in other strategic locations in the mountains surrounding the town. It was always best to have multiple options.

  Since he still had thirty minutes until the church meeting would end, he figured he ought to use the extra time to practice his low-crawl technique. After checking for ants, he dropped to his belly and inched forward along the trail, maintaining a pace of three meters per minute. It was painstakingly slow but an essential talent for jungle combat. When he reached the area directly above his shooting position, he slowly pivoted on his left hip and began a downhill crawl. The terrain wasn’t overly steep, but by going headfirst, he could control his speed more precisely. He eased the cut branch aside and checked for snakes, then, like oozing molasses, poured himself onto the excavated pad. Franco preferred shooting from a prone position, but the terrain dictated he use a sitting, cross-legged technique.

  He maneuvered into position and pulled his coat out from under him. Unslinging his rifle, he checked its box magazine by pulling the bolt back halfway, careful not to eject the live round he kept in the chamber. All good. He closed the bolt and disengaged the safety with his thumb.

  Although the clouds made the ambient light patchy, the sun hadn’t yet dropped below the mountains. Now it became a waiting game. He scoped the flag above the general store and estimated the wind at just under ten kilometers per hour from the northeast. Using an expensive range finder, he took a reading to the general store and dialed the elevation into his scope. Next, he added a small wind correction. He didn’t need much—the wind was coming from his one o’clock vector.

  He returned his eye to the scope and began a series of slow deep breaths.

  Inside the small brick church, Pastor Tobias finished his closing prayer and opened his eyes. The fear and uncertainty he saw in his congregation concerned him. News of Mateo’s punishment made everyone edgy; Mateo wasn’t the only miner who kept a personal stash of gold dust. Although the miners were allowed to pan gold for themselves on Sundays, technically the gold didn’t belong to them, and they were required to exchange it for cash at the end of the day. One thing was certain, at next Sunday’s cash-out, the payouts would be larger than normal. These people may be impoverished, but they weren’t stupid. Anyone who owned a secret stash of gold would add a little extra over the next few Sundays so it wouldn’t look like they’d been hoarding.

  Poverty in the village created a vicious circle Tobias knew all too well. The poorer these people became, the more desperate for menial work they became, which only made them poorer. In remote areas like Santavilla, public schools, hospitals, and fire and police stations didn’t exist. There was no infrastructure to create a better way of life. Their lives were mundane at best, downright dreary at worst. Most of them toiled seven days a week—they had to. Seventy-five córdobas a day—about four US dollars—didn’t go far.

  Perhaps that’s why Tobias had chosen this town. If he couldn’t help them financially, at least he could help them spiritually and educate them on the dangers of working with mercury.

  Mrs. Perez approached him. She and her husband owned the general store near Mateo’s house. “Bless you, Pastor Tobias. I heard about last night. Will Mateo be okay?”

  “If he doesn’t get an infection, he should be all right, but he’ll be disfigured for the rest of his life.”

  “My husband and I have some money for him. It isn’t much.” She handed Tobias five hundred córdobas.

  “That’s quite generous. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “I keep telling everyone to wear rubber gloves, but only a few of the ore workers are buying them even though we’re selling them at cost.”

  “We can only make people aware of the danger. We can’t force them to do anything.”

  “I wish I could give them away for free.”

  “You do plenty. Please don’t feel guilty.”

  He thanked Mrs. Perez again for the donation, gave her a hug, and left the church.

  The sound of a diesel engine broke the town’s silence. The work bus had arrived with the first load of miners.

  Franco focused on the bus as it entered the far end of town. When it stopped in front of the general store, he moved his scope to the south and spotted Antonia leaving the church. “What are you doing there?” he whispered.

  He watched Mateo’s daughter walk up the street toward the bus. He couldn’t see her facial expression, but her body language seemed stiff. She didn’t move with the confidence he usually saw in her stride. She kept glancing nervously back toward the church. Seeing her father punished last night had angered her—that much was clear. But rules were rules, and he intended to question her about her father’s secret stash of gold.

  Franco trained his crosshairs on Tobias as he walked toward the bus.

  He subconsciously checked the safety with his thumb and continued his deep breaths. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his body. He loved the feeling and wished he could experience it more often. Perhaps he would. Antonia had some explaining to do.

 
; Franco swung his scope to the flag above the general store. Watching its movement, he decided to add an additional half minute of angle to his wind correction. He returned the crosshairs to his target, blew half a breath out, and began a controlled pull of the trigger.

  Seeing his friend’s bandaged ear angered Tobias, but he fabricated the best smile he could. “How’s the ear?”

  Mateo stepped out of the bus. “It stings a little, but I’m okay. Thank you for helping me last night.”

  “Mrs. Perez made a donation to your family.” He reached into his pocket and removed the money.

  At the same instant he extended his hand, Tobias heard a loud crack. It sounded like a giant bullwhip.

  An invisible hammer struck his chest.

  He clutched his right side and fell backward.

  When his head hit the ground, his vision spun, then went dark.

  The discharge bucked Franco’s body and slammed his ears. He reacquired Tobias in the scope and saw the man on the ground.

  Screams of confusion and panic reached his position as the reverberating concussion of the report crackled off the mountainsides. People scrambled in all directions. None of them wanted to be the next victim.

  Somewhere in the red haze of Tobias’s mind, he knew he’d been shot. He also knew he’d never survive this. Overwhelming sadness washed through him . . . His work here wasn’t finished.

  Disconnected from his body, he had a vague sense of lying alone in the middle of the road. Blinding pain erupted along his chest and neck, slamming his mind and body back together.

  “Tobias!”

  He turned his head and opened his eyes. Mrs. Perez . . . Running toward him. No, don’t . . . He didn’t want her exposed out in the open, but he didn’t want to die alone either. He sensed her kneel at his side and take his hand.

  “I’m here, Tobias.”

  “Please go back, there’s nothing you can—” He coughed and tasted blood.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .”

  He felt her tears fall onto his face and managed a smile. “Please don’t mourn for me. I’ll see you again . . . Tell the ore workers to wear . . . their gloves.”

  “I will. I promise. I’ll give them away for free.”

  “You . . . have a kind soul, Mrs. Perez.”

  “I love you, Tobias. Everyone loves you.”

  “Please . . . forgive them.” He coughed up more blood.

  When he felt his consciousness begin to fade, Pastor Tobias began a silent prayer to God for living a blessed life.

  Franco watched the touching exchange with mixed emotions. He didn’t feel especially good about killing the pastor, but orders were orders, and he wasn’t willing to question Macanas’s authority. Doing El Jefe’s bidding had made him a small fortune, enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. He didn’t plan on dying centavo-less like the rest of the peasants in that cursed town.

  He slung his rifle over his shoulder and crawled out of the hole. After replacing the branch and covering its cut end, he made his way up to the trail and took a final look toward town. The woman remained at Tobias’s side. A few people stood next to the buildings lining the road, but they didn’t approach. His instincts told him to hurry, but he kept slinking at a slow pace until he reached the deeper cover of trees. He had an hour before the SUV returned, so he took his time removing his ghillie suit and tying it to his backpack.

  In many ways, the miners would be better off without Tobias. All that old man did was give them a false sense of hope. Macanas didn’t force them to work the mines. Any of them could leave Santavilla any time they wanted. They stayed because Macanas gave them employment.

  Although Franco didn’t feel guilt over killing Tobias, he did feel a nagging sense of apprehension. Get a grip, he told himself. The foolish beliefs of that old man were meaningless, based on superstition and ignorance. He had nothing to fear. But as he hiked up the trail, Tobias’s words echoed through his mind.

  You will answer to God for this.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nathan McBride swung the ax with precision and power. The blade cleaved through the twelve-inch-diameter log, splitting it cleanly. He placed one of the halves upright on the stump and split it again. He’d been at this all afternoon and had worked up quite a sweat. A troubling sense of uneasiness had invaded him, and to make matters worse, he couldn’t pinpoint its source. Nathan had no illusions about his nature. He possessed a conflicted personality, but his mood had been predominantly dark for several days. It felt like a mental splinter he couldn’t remove. Whatever the cause, he knew from past experience the only way to purge the anxiety was through physical exertion, and making firewood did the trick. Nathan didn’t understand why it worked; it just did.

  Nathan was a big man and used all of his six foot five, 240-pound bulk to generate a lot of power. He didn’t just swing the ax—he hammered it through the wood with a vengeance.

  Nathan never removed his shirt in public, but here in the privacy of his backyard he’d tossed it aside. The late afternoon sun glistened off his upper body. His build mirrored that of an NFL linebacker, but no football player had dozens of long scars crisscrossing his torso at one-inch spacing. As punishment for not cooperating, his former tormentor had methodically sliced his skin with a searing knife, being careful not to make gouges deep enough to be fatal—just excruciating painful. Nathan had gotten used to the wicker-basket pattern on his skin, but the marks were a brutal reminder of a battle against insanity he’d once fought—a battle he’d nearly lost. Below graying hair that used to be reddish brown, his face also held grisly souvenirs. From forehead to chin, three lengthy scars dominated his expression. A plastic surgeon had repaired them, but they were still plainly visible. When people stared, he was often tempted to say, What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a man with a giant N carved on his face? Coupled with his dark-blue eyes, the scars gave him a “don’t mess with me” look.

  Three weeks. That’s how long he’d endured the twisted musings of a sadistic interrogator after his botched mission . . . Had it really been more than twenty years ago? Shouldn’t two decades have been enough time to recover? Apparently not. He still woke up drenched in sweat, ready to kill anything that moved. The physical aspect of enduring pain had been manageable, but the hatred he’d discovered within his soul had produced a deeper, much more savage wound.

  In the early years after his forced retirement, he’d become addicted to alcohol. In bars, he’d often been challenged by drunk “tough guys” wanting to test themselves, and Nathan had been more than willing to administer their exams. He remembered looking at his bloody knuckles one night and thinking, This isn’t who I am. Why am I doing this? He’d experienced an epiphany, realizing he’d actually been seeking confrontations. He’d falsely believed that beating the tar out of a bully would make him feel better. Hurting other people—even jerks who deserved it—had put him on a corrosive journey. He’d felt like a wounded insect that could only crawl in a circle.

  As for Nathan’s current issues . . . well, it probably said something that over a five-day period, he’d produced eight cords of firewood. The source of the wood was a ranch in east San Diego County, where Harv and he owned fifteen hundred acres of pristine oak and pine forest. Harv, an expert at felling trees, had brought the 120-foot giant down with surgical precision. Seeing the massive tree fall had been an awesome yet sad sight. By controlling the direction of the fall, they’d preserved several oaks that wouldn’t have survived otherwise. Such was a tenet of nature: some die so that others might live.

  His thoughts drifted to Holly. When he’d first met her a few years back, she’d been the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Sacramento field office. They’d connected with each other in an unguarded way Nathan hadn’t thought possible. He missed her. Maybe he’d take a trip back east and rekindle their friendship. Harv had been urging him to do
it for several months.

  He felt his cell vibrate in his pocket, wiped his hand on his jeans, and pulled it free. He squinted at the screen but decided to take the call.

  “The answer’s no,” he said.

  “Charming, as always. No names.”

  “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “Well, that kinda limits our communication.”

  “I’ve arranged your transportation out here. You’re both on a chartered flight.”

  “My friend’s a family man. He can’t just drop everything like I can.”

  “He needs to be on that jet.”

  “We’re retired.”

  “You’re never retired.”

  Nathan wiped sweat from his forehead. “Can you at least give me something?”

  “Central America.”

  “Are we talking about the location I think we’re talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  Nathan didn’t know what to say, didn’t trust himself. After a few seconds, he asked, “Is this about our old friend?”

  “No, it’s something else.”

  “May I assume we wouldn’t be talking if the situation wasn’t urgent?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “Are we going down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much time do we have before the charter?”

  “A few hours. I’ll text you the details after we hang up.”